Death Layer (The Depraved Club)

by Celia Loren

  Bane half-winces, half-smirks at me. “Different circumstances. But yeah, I know my way around some bondage.”

  “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Focus.”

  “I am! Isn’t a basic bondage tutorial part of the plan?”

  I grin wryly up at him, and he cups my face. “That’s my brave girl.”

  He leans in, his lips brushing against my neck in a warm, tender kiss. I close my eyes, savoring the sensation of his mouth on my skin and his huge muscular body protecting me like a shield against the craziness around us. I am helpless against his touch, against the cuffs. He kisses along my jaw, his touch light as a feather.

  Anyone passing us would think we were just another prostitute and customer utilizing the joys of the sex fence.

  “Remember,” Bane murmurs in my ear. “Signal the second he walks in the door.”

  The reminder brings me back to reality. I nod, forcing my eyes open into slits.

  “Be careful, baby.” I whisper.

  It’s hard to say how long we wait. The only measure of time in this hallway is the groaning and grunting and moaning of the people around us. Every time the big metal door slides open I crane my neck to see if I recognize the faces of the approaching patrons. And every time, it’s not him.

  Until it is.

  I feel angry chills prickle all over my skull the second Mr. King’s red hair floats into the frame of my vision, only a few yards away. It all rushes back in my memory with a sick feeling, from the chemistry I imagined between us at Skollz Corp to the utter shock and helplessness I felt when he left me here to rot.

  It seems decades ago, but it’s only been four days since the last time I’ve seen Mr. King’s face. It was Friday when Mr. King brought me here. It must be Monday evening now. He’d be leaving for Australia tomorrow for the business trip I was supposed to be on, another life ago. In those four brief days, that face of his that I once thought handsome has twisted in my brain, revealed to be the face of the devil himself.

  Mr. King is walking briskly with the same look of intense focus that he wore Friday. I’m staring, open-mouthed, wanting to rip his infuriatingly calm face off and ask him why he’s done this to me. The heat of fury and rage that’s lived in my bones since Mr. King abandoned me flares until I think I might explode.

  “That’s him.” I urgently tap Bane’s foot with mine, our pre-arranged signal, and he straightens to glance surreptitiously over his shoulder.

  A muscle in Bane’s jaw twitches. His eyes narrow. “Ready?”

  We’ve gone over the steps a hundred times, but now that it’s game time I’m unbearably nervous, like a new recruit going to their first battle. It’s a simple one, two, three attack: bump him, catch him, and kill him. But it’s my first murder, my first revenge, and I’m jittery as fuck. Mr. King is only a couple yards away now, walking down the hallway like a groom in a kinky wedding gone way wrong, barely noticing the people chained to the fence around him.

  I nod and take a deep breath. Mr. King is an arm’s length away.

  “Ready.” I say to Bane. “Now.”

  Bane rolls off of me, his massive chest slamming into Mr. King’s shoulder and knocking the surprised executive off-balance. Lightning fast, Bane’s hand suctions onto Mr. King’s shoulder, steadying him.

  “Oh, excuse me, man,” Bane grumbles in a perfect imitation of drunken slurring. “So sorry. Didn’t see you. Want a turn? Here, you take her.”

  Mr. King grimaces at Bane in distaste and tries to brush the bigger man’s hand away, but Bane’s grip is too tight.

  “No, no,” says Mr. King with a fake polite smile. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

  Bane’s apologizing like a groveling puppy. “Seriously, I’m sorry. Here, have a turn.”

  “No, no.”

  “I insist.”

  Bane’s got a head’s height advantage and easily bulldozes Mr. King toward the edge of the aisle until the smaller man stumbles right into my spot on the wall. Bane gives him a rough shove and suddenly we are nose to nose. Mr. King thumps awkwardly against me, his hips jutting into my belly.

  Fast as lightning, I raise my legs and wrap them around his hips like a vice. I can’t help but sneer a little as I smile at him, a cold strong feeling overwhelming my insides.

  “Good evening, Vincent.”

  It’s not until I link my ankles behind his back and squeeze him to me that Mr. King even bothers looking in my face, his blue eyes foggy with annoyance and confusion. It takes a second, but suddenly his eyes clear and recognition dawns. He shakes his head at me and laughs harshly, bewildered.

  “Miss Clark,” he breathes, fascinated. “My god, they’ve put you down here?”

  “Oh Vincent, please, call me Ava. I think we’re on a first name basis now.”

  “Are we?” His lips are caught halfway between a grimace and a smile, his brows knit in perplexity. He clearly has no clue what the hell to say to me, so I take the lead.

  “You ruined my life,” I whisper. “Tossed me into human trafficking, threatened to kill my sister. Right now I can feel your tiny cock between my legs, and I’m about to be the last thing you see in your twisted, sadistic, sad little life. So, really, please, call me Ava. No need for Miss Clark. We’re way fucking past that.”

  “I’ve always admired your spirit. Ava.” He chuckles, glancing down at my legs wrapped around his hips. He brings his well-manicured hands up to my thighs and rubs them slowly toward my crotch in a lecherous gesture that makes my skin crawl. “And I am sorry about what happened. But there’s no way out of this for you, so I will disregard your empty threat.”

  I just smile at him. Though my heart is pounding and I want desperately to vomit all over him, I hold it together. I trust Bane, I think to myself. I trust Bane…

  Mr. King licks his lips. “Although now that we’re here in this position together,” he says, “I have to admit I have pictured your legs wrapped around me a couple of times. Since you’re chained to a fence and have no real say in the matter, I might as well indulge in a little fantasy of mine.”

  The angry heat in my bones switches to ice.

  “What a coincidence,” I laugh. “I was just about to act out a little fantasy of mine.”

  He frowns, puzzled.

  “Yeah, it’s definitely not the same fantasy,” I admit. “In mine, you die.”

  Behind Mr. King, I see Bane move quietly into position. He’s standing directly behind Mr. King, feet planted, his face neutral. Bane reaches with his left hand to a knife that I know is sheathed in the waistband of his jeans.

  “This isn’t what I wanted Vincent, but this is not a game,” I say, parroting back his words to me when he handed me over to Jack. “I wish I could say I forgive you for what you’ve done to me, or at least tried to do, but I’m not there yet. Maybe with counseling, who knows? But I’m sure as hell not giving you any more chances to hurt me, my sister, or anyone else. You’re done. Your little game of playing god and destroying people ends tonight. Goodbye, Vincent.”

  With a movement so swift and sudden that even I barely see it, Bane’s arm swings around, plunging the blade of the knife into Mr. King’s ribcage and burying it up to the hilt. Mr. King gargles, stunned, his eyes harried and frozen on me as if I can explain. And then Bane twists he knife, sealing Mr. King’s fate. I feel it echo through Mr. King’s body as he twitches and his weight sags a little into my legs.

  “Clark,” he croaks, twitching. “You…bitch.”

  “That’s no way to address a lady,” Bane whispers in his ear.

  Vincent’s iceberg eyes bulge and his face contorts. He’s gasping like a fish when he reels forward into me, clutching at my shoulders. His nails dig into my skin painfully, as if he’s clinging onto his very life. But it’s useless. Those eyes, once so invulnerable and cold, are widening in shock as the blood and the seconds drain out of him.

  “Clark…”

  He convulses, careening into me,
and slumps.

  Dead.

  Bane is right behind him, and he wraps an arm under Mr. King’s armpits to hold him steady while with his other hand he deftly unlocks my handcuffs. I bring my arms down gratefully, rubbing circulation back into them. My heart is thundering in my ears, and I can feel Mr. King’s sticky blood spilling over my belly. Even with Bane’s help, Mr. King’s deadweight is getting to be too much for me.

  “Hurry,” I whisper.

  “Lift his arms,” Bane grunts.

  I raise one of Vincent’s wrists, locking it in the cuffs, and then the other. Now he is suspended like a hunk of meat in a butcher’s shop, a macabre addition to the horrible D.L. Club’s entry hall. With any luck, no one will even notice him until the club closes. That’s how we leave the great and powerful Mr. Vincent King, another casualty of the hell he helped to build.

  Just like we planned, Bane and I turn and walk away as casually as possible. We slink through the crowd toward the MC members’ elevator. Judge Jefferson is still there, talking to the bouncer. When he sees us coming, he shifts his stance to block the bouncer’s eye line so we can slip past. Judge Jefferson gives me a wink over the shoulder of the oblivious bouncer as I slip past.

  As the elevator doors close behind us, Bane takes my hands in his. It’s then that I realize I’m shaking. He pulls me in to him and holds me tight against his body. I can feel his heart beating through the muscles of his chest, and am somehow soothed by the powerful feel and sound of him. He rests his chin on the crown of my head, and I can feel his soft breath against my hair. I may be trembling against him like a leaf, but he’s my rock.

  “We did the right thing Ava,” he murmurs. “That was the only way out. Kill or be killed.”

  “I know.”

  He holds me close as the floors zoom past, and I find myself chuckling against him.

  “What?” He asks.

  “Only in the D.L. Club could a half-naked woman covered in blood draw no attention.”

  He scoffs. “Fast shower for you, and then let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  When the elevator doors open, we practically sprint to his room. Bane double-checks everything in the backpack he has packed for us while I speed-shower, scrubbing and scrubbing with soap but feeling like Lady Macbeth; that damn spot just won’t ever come out.

  I’ve now killed a man. Along with Mr. King, I’ve killed Old Ava for good. Now, the only way to go is forward, and I know exactly who to hitch my wagon to.

  When I step out of the shower, I see that Bane has laid out some clothes for me on the bathroom sink. It’s a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a leather jacket, underwear, a bra, and boots. It’s cohesive, shades of navy and gold, and all the correct size. As I shrug it on, I let out an involuntary sigh of relief. God, it feels amazing to wear real clothes in my own size. It’s been for-fucking-ever!

  When I join Bane in the bedroom, he doesn’t even have to glance up to know my question. He’s zipping up the backpack and stroking behind Jenny’s ears.

  “A going-away present from Blair,” he explains. “She wouldn’t stop giving me shit for dressing you in my underwear. And yeah, it’s totally creepy that she can guess everyone’s size. She’s always been like that.”

  I smile, as ready as I’ll ever be. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s rock and roll.” Bane stands to his feet. I take the backpack filled with cash and supplies from him, and he also hands me his Remington. Then he turns to the pit-bull. “OK, Jenny. You’re not gonna like this, but you’re coming too.”

  He squats down beside the dog, who hasn’t moved much in the day since Meat Grinder’s emergency surgery. She’s got a fresh bandage on her side and chest, and her stumped leg is wrapped snug in clean linen. Bane scoops her into his arms and gives her a little kiss between the ears that makes my heart feel stupid squishy and like a bursting gusher candy.

  A devastatingly charismatic, dimpled smile flashes across his face. “Alright. Got my redhead and my pit bull. Just one more girl to go.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing he means his motorcycle. “Oh my god, are you always this cheesy?”

  “Only after I kill the bad guys.”

  It’s only half funny, half disturbing, but I still laugh with him. He’s holding the door open with his foot and I hop up to my tiptoes to kiss his lips before I pass him into the hall, smiling into his handsome, hard face.

  “Guess I’ll keep you anyway,” I murmur.

  He kisses me back, hungrily, and his eyes twinkle down at me. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Red. Vamanos!”

  I follow him out the door, swinging on the backpack, tucking his Remington through the shoulder straps the way I used to carry my yoga mat. Life sure changes.

  We make it down the stairwell and to the ground floor with no problems, but Bane leads me through the basement exit. A security guard is playing Candy Crush Saga on his iPhone and blinks up at us.

  “Dog needs a vet,” Bane explains. “Gonna drive her uptown.”

  The security guard nods and waves us out. Bane maintains a steady, normal pace as we stroll around the block to where he left his Harley parked. When we get next to it, I stare at the tiny black seat.

  “So…how’s this gonna work?” I ask skeptically.

  “Watch and learn, babycakes.”

  Still holding the dog, Bane swings a leg over the Harley and eases himself down on the seat. Once he’s balanced, he carefully turns Jenny so she is facing forward. She’s pretty much sitting on his lap, her paws carefully poised on the muscled body of the bike, his arms wrapped around her to hold the handlebars. I can’t help but laugh at the sight of them perched together on a Harley.

  “I can’t decide if that’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, or the most badass thing I’ve ever seen,” I confess.

  Bane nods emphatically. “It’s both.”

  He turns the key in the ignition and the Harley roars to life with the signature sound of the engine, sending a thrill of excitement through my blood. Bane reaches a hand behind him to pat the few square inches left over on the seat.

  “There’s room for one more!” He shouts over the engine.

  “You sure? Because you and the dog look pretty cozy without me!”

  Bane glowers at me playfully. “Stop being a pain in the ass and get your ass as close as possible to mine and keep it there!”

  Laughing, I do.

  Our errand to the famous Penn Station post office at 34th street is the work of a moment. Bane pinches my ass as I jump off the idling motorcycle. I squeak in surprise before darting up the steps to the post office, stealing a glance at Bane as he balances the bike alongside the empty early morning curb with Jenny on his lap.

  I push through the rotating doors into the post office’s 24-hour lobby, my footsteps echoing off the immense pillars like a worshipper in a cathedral. I am the only soul in the beautiful building, and I feel a pang of admiration for its beauty as well as a twisting sense of goodbye. This is one of the most New York City spots, an iconic room, and it will be one of my last ports of call before leaving forever.

  I find the PO Box, twist the key. Inside the box is a manila envelope containing my new identity. With trembling, excited fingers I quickly rifle through.

  Rachel Kent’s fake United States passport, New York Driver’s license, and birth certificate are inside. Their details are incredible, to my untrained eye seeming completely legit. I shake my head, amused, when I notice the pretend new hometown Blair has chosen for me: Greenwich, Connecticut. Evidently she thinks I look rich. Oh, the irony.

  I pull another envelope out of my pocket, this one rumpled and secret. Bane doesn’t know about it. It’s a letter, hastily scrawled, with no return address. I brush my fingertips over the name of the addressee: Rachel Clark, 5 East 125th Street Apt. 5R, New York, New York.

  “Love you, sis,” I whisper to it. “I hope I see you again soon.”

  The letter is brief and vague, just enough to tell her that I am alive, that I got tang
led up with dangerous people but have done my best to break free. That none of them knows my real name, and so she should be safe from them as long as she doesn’t dig too deep into my disappearance. I ask her to tell Mom and Dad that I am ok. I tell her I am in with a wild, rough, and yet trustworthy man, the one who saved my life. I ask her to forgive me for not being able to see her before I go. I promise her that I will do everything I can to let her know I am ok, from time to time. I say goodbye.

  It’s silly, I know, but I give the envelope a kiss before I drop it in the mailbox.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clutching my new identity papers like a good-luck charm, I race down the steps to the street and back to Bane. It must be about five a.m. now, and the slow bake of a summer sunrise is beginning to flicker in the east, sending shots of electric blue and hints of orange through the deep purple night sky. It’s a breathtaking backdrop for the sight of that powerful, foxy man waiting for me. He gives me a lop-sided grin that makes heat swirl through my body. I drink in the sight of him, with the lights of the city and the white-lit outline of the Empire State Building behind.

  “All good?” He says over the hum of the Harley engine.

  “Yup! Thanks for my new name,” I reply.

  He winks. “That’s just the start, baby. I’ll give you a newer one, soon.”

  I grin and climb on behind him, heart racing. As I wrap my arms around Bane, I feel my eyes fill with emotion. Goodbye, New York. Goodbye, Old Ava. Goodbye, old life.

  Hello, unknown.

  Bane revs the engine and we accelerate through the empty streets, the warm morning breeze caressing our faces as we weave toward the Chelsea Piers. It’s a quiet, beautiful sight as the moored yachts sway gently in the current, glowing gold in the first glimmers of dawn. Bane drives us straight onto the dock to the very end where a charter yacht is waiting, its engines quietly humming and bubbling into the Hudson.

  There’s a man with long hair and a denim shirt doing something with a rope in the back of the boat. He glances up at us and waves.